


The Wraith

by thekid21



Category: Marvel (Comics), Moon Knight (Comics), Punisher (Comics)
Genre: Disassociation, Frank Has a Heart, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marc Needs a Hug, Mentally Ill Character, did
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 18:21:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19278868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thekid21/pseuds/thekid21
Summary: The sky is empty and the Moon Knight is spiraling fast. When his bloody path of vengeance begins to draw attention, an old friend decides to track him down. Frank Castle isn’t sure he’s the most qualified to help pull Marc back from the brink, but no one else is stepping in.





	The Wraith

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any triggers involving themes of mental illness (e.g. dissociation, anxiety, some self-harm) this might not be for you. There’s an implied relationship between Marc and Frank, but the focus of the story is on Marc’s mental health from an outside perspective. The mature rating is due to those themes and the violence that typically happens around Moon Knight and the Punisher. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Frank’s search ends in a run down subway station. His cape, shining in the light of a fire left abandoned in a rusted oil drum, calls him closer. The relief at finding him fades as Frank takes in the filth covering his limbs and the dark shredded edges of his cape. Stained all across his once pure armor are layers of dried blood. Frank watches fresh blood spray in a fine mist as Moon Knight continues to beat the man below him. 

Frank doesn’t need to look too close to know he’s dead. Has been for a few minutes at least. 

“Spector.” His voice feels unwelcome in the darkness. The sound of more bones breaking is accompanied by the wet, butchered breathing of some of the other victims of the Moon’s wrath. “He’s done, Spector.” He carefully approaches the other man while keeping an eye on the bodies around his feet. Ready to add a few bullets to the carnage if anyone looks too lively. He doesn’t want to if he can avoid it. He isn’t sure how Spector would react to the noise. 

Most of them are unconscious. Some of the upturned faces have the crescent moon carved into their foreheads, but it’s sloppy, distracted. If Frank didn’t know Marc he might not know what they were meant to be. It’s clear they all require medical care and soon, but Frank is more focused on the man in front of him. 

“Marc.” He tries again when he’s just out of arm’s reach. 

A spiked fist pauses mid strike and the hooded man slowly turns to regard Frank out of the corner of his eye. On seeing who was there he relaxes slightly only to tense up again as he takes in the old subway station. He looks down at the man below him then at all the bodies left half broken around him. With jerky movements he opens the hand that had been tangled in the man’s shirt and releases him with a final thud. 

Frank watches him quietly. Marc was hard to read at the best of times, but with the mask in place it was nearly impossible to gauge his mental state. With no way to see his face he had to be patient. He watches his spiked knuckles drip onto his boots as he surveyed the carnage with what looked like a few weeks of warfare eating at his shroud. Moon Knight usually took time to maintain the non tactical color. He took pride in representing his ‘god’. Or so he’d told him one night as he’d meticulously cleaned the crescent on his chest. 

Right now, Frank couldn’t see any of that care. It’d been a few months since any of Moon Knight’s alters had been seen by their regulars. Frank and Marc didn’t have a regular thing, but with Moon Knight spottings still happening he hadn’t worried about the mercenary’s absence. However, when a homeless man had shown up claiming to know Jake he’d been willing to hear him out. Turns out no one had seen Jake either. And ever since Marlene had left Steven had been coming out less often. Even Mr. Knight hadn’t been seen by his regular contact within the police department.

Moon Knight was using the time the others usually had to cut a bloody path of vengeance through the night. The hospitals had been seeing a steady stream of criminals ranting about the Moon Knight. Over the last few weeks the broken bones started to become more sadistic. Damage done where it didn’t need to be. Figures carved into flesh that spoke more of sickness than higher purpose. When bodies started getting sent straight to the morgue Frank knew he needed to step in before the choir boy and his friends caught on. 

“Marc.” He says trying to get his attention again. When that doesn’t work he changes tactics. “Moon Knight.” Finally he looks at him, but he doesn’t speak. “It’s time to go.”

“I’m not done.” He rasps back. Frank almost winces in sympathy at the unused roughness of his voice. 

“Yes, you are, Spector.” He steps closer so he can reach out to touch him if he wanted to. The white calls to him in the gloom, but he resists. He tries to remember that this is Moon Knight and Marc might not be listening right now. “I can see more than a few things that need stitches.” He points at what looks like a bullet wound in one of his arms. Then he sees the knife protruding from the meat of his thigh. “Let me get you cleaned up then we can go back out together.”

Moon Knight looks down at his leg and gingerly touches the blood oozing down his thigh. He doesn’t look at Frank, but he nods and slowly follows him back through the maze of tunnels. When he stumbles on the stairs and leans on one of the walls Frank cautiously sets a hand on his spine and waits for him to come back. “Come on. We’re almost out.” He nods and puts an arm around Frank’s shoulders, so he can take some of the weight off his leg. 

Settling into the driver’s seat, Frank debates on where to go next. His hideout was equipped with more explosives than was wise to leave around Marc right now. The room in the abandoned warehouse that he’d tracked Moon Knight to was just a scream from a warring mind. He needed somewhere clean that Marc and the others felt safe. When the idea came to him he smiled and started the engine. 

He drives to one of the nicer parts of the city. The kind of place where Frank would never blend in. Fortunately the garage he’s headed to is private. All it takes is a thumbprint and a password and he’s packing his van between a new Bugatti and a battered yellow cab. Moon Knight hasn’t said a word, but he throws his door open, leaving a new dent in the cab, and limps after Frank without any instruction. He stands next to him in the elevator, still dripping blood, with his fists clenched and his posture tense. The private lift takes them to the top floor so smoothly that Frank isn’t sure they’re moving until it reopens with a crisp ding. 

He guides him into the clean apartment and swiftly locks and bolts the door behind them. The stagnant air feels like a welcome safe zone. He finds himself supporting more and more of Moon Knight’s weight as he drags him into the master bathroom. In the bright lighting of the apartment, Frank finally gets a good look at the damage. 

The suit couldn’t be called white anymore and judging by the smell it hadn’t come off in a while. The whole thing would need to be burned, but fortunately Steven could afford it. He manages to help him sit on the toilet lid without slipping on the blood now staining the white tile. Crouching down he starts working at his feet and methodically unbuckles each layer. At first this caused no reaction, but the longer he worked the more aware he was of the increase in breathing. By the time he reached for his hands they had locked into a tight hold around his stomach. Looking up he could see his mask moving with his rapid breathes. He sets one careful hand on Marc’s cheek and uses the other to ease back the filthy hood. “I’m going to take this off.”

He doesn’t make any move to stop him, but Frank still takes his time. Knowing Marc his nose is probably broken. When he drops the mask to the tile Marc blinks his eyes open. He looks a little dazed as he takes in the bathroom tiles. He’s too distracted to notice Frank until he clears his throat. 

“Marc?” Brown eye stare at him full of incomprehension. Frank sighs. “Who am I talking to right now?”

“I don’t…” He starts to tremble as his eyes flick around the room looking for an answer. 

“Do you remember me?”

“You’re Frank.” He says slowly as though the information he needs is only just reaching him through the fog. A moment later he looks at Frank’s symbol on his chest and his shaking slows down. “We trust you.”

“That’s good,” Frank says as encouragingly as he can. “You can get your shirt off just fine, but I need to cut your pants to get to this knife.”

Once again Marc looked down at the knife in his leg in confusion. He grips the handle tightly and for a moment Frank is worried he’ll tear it out. All he does is wiggle the knife experimentally before hissing in discomfort and letting go. Frank watches him cautiously as he stands and quickly grabs the first aid kit in a spacious cabinet that was probably meant for towels. Digging inside he grabs a pair of scissors and begins carefully cutting through the remaining layers. 

“Stop it,” Marc whispers suddenly. Frank freezes with two handfuls of ruined fabric and stares up at Marc, but he wasn’t looking at him. He was glaring into a spot over Frank’s head. “I don’t want you here.” He sounds so defeated as he mumbled something else too quiet for Frank to hear. 

“Who’re you talking to?” Frank asks once he’s quieted down. He slides off the spiked knuckles and drops them heavily into the sink. He gently begins unwrapping his hands revealing red, swollen knuckles. When the pressure comes off two of them open up again where they'd split. They’re already bleeding steadily when he pulls his shirt over his head a moment later. The sleeve sticks to the bullet wound in his arm, but Marc doesn’t even flinch. He doesn’t answer. Too far away in the labyrinth of his mind. 

Frank doesn’t try to pull him out as he starts cleaning his arm. The sting of alcohol seems to wake him up a little. Pain is always a good distraction. A solid reminder that you are alive. He can almost feel awareness returning to him. Or as much awareness as he could muster at the moment. 

“Khonshu.” He rasps in answer to his previous question. Frank doesn’t pause as he finishes sewing his arm and starts looking at his leg. 

“I thought you got rid of him.” He was unsure if this was a good line of conversation. He didn’t know if the Moon Knight’s god was real or just another aspect of the man, but to Marc and the others he had been absolute. When Frank had first met him he’d been a zealot. Over the years the relationship had started to fester. He’d watched as he’d started to spiral lower and lower with his deity pushing him into darker places. 

When he’d cut out the infection he’d been more present than Frank had ever seen him. At least for a while. Even without Khonshu it was clear underneath it all Marc was still a very ill man. 

“We did. This isn’t him.” He accepts a stack of bandages when Frank hands them to him. Nods in understanding when Frank instructs him to apply pressure as soon as the knife is out. When the blade slides free he grits his teeth and holds the blood in as tightly as he can. Frank adds the knife to the sink and gently guides his hands away, so he can get a better look. Satisfied he quickly cleans and rinses out the wound. 

“Who are you seeing then?” He asks in an attempt to distract him. 

“Just something we made. I know it’s not really him, but we’ve been seeing him in the gaps lately. Keeping us company. We don’t need him," he insists angrily. He let out a deep breath then he continued tiredly, "but the landscape is always changing. Hard to have solid ground. It’s... comforting to have him here,” he admits softly. Frank wasn’t sure he completely followed the broken sentences. He knew his god had been an anchor for a long time. It made sense that it was hard to build a life without him, knowing he’ll probably sneak back in one day. “That doesn’t sound good, does it?”

“It’s not the weirdest thing you’ve ever said.” Frank said as he stitches his leg with the speed and neatness that spoke of decades of practice. “I talked to my wife for a few years after.”

“Khonshu is the devourer of hearts.” He says with faint amusement. He’s clenching the bandages in his hands forcing more blood from his knuckles. “Doubt he’d be the type to wear a ring.” Frank smiled as he cut the thread and inspected him for anything else that needed stitching. Satisfied he adds the final stitches to his hands then stands up with a few pops from his bad knee. 

“Alright, think you can stand long enough to take a shower?” Rather than answer he carefully pulls himself to his feet. With one hand gripping the marble counter he pushes his briefs down and gingerly steps out of them. Following his lead, he starts pulling off his own clothes that are now covered in Marc’s blood.

The hot water takes the fresh blood off Frank’s arms and sends it swirling around their feet. He guides Marc under the spray and begins working at the blood and sweat until his skin begins to feel clean. He drifts again as Frank works. His awareness focused on the water beading on the glass and the figure watching them from the other side.

Frank uses the distraction to continue working soap into his ragged skin. Running his hands down his ribs he feels the bones reaching out to him. Too close to the surface. He wonders what Moon Knight has been running on because clearly he wasn’t eating enough or sleeping judging by the dark shadows under his eyes. The water at their feet eventually begins to run clear as he kneels at his feet to get the last of the dirt. When he stood again he quickly washes his own body while taking in his work. With his skin clean it was easy to see the bruises covering nearly every inch of skin. It’s only another sign of how out of touch Marc was at the moment that he hadn’t flinched at Frank’s hands running over him. The bruising was worse along his ribs, forearms, and shins where he took the majority of hits. The armor hadn’t been enough to protect him, but Frank knew Marc’s dangerous habit of letting his opponents hit him. Clearly he’d been going at it hard. 

Stepping forward he washes the soap off himself and guides Marc’s head under the water. It takes two washings before his hair feels soft again. Before turning off the shower he lets the water run cold for a few seconds. Marc doesn’t react for a moment, but then he looks up at Frank with a brief moment of clarity. It was like watching a window crack open for a breath before shutting firmly again. Knowing the temperature change was more for stopping anxiety he wasn’t surprised it didn’t do much here. 

Turning the water all the way off he takes his time toweling Marc off. Now much more conscious of his injuries. Marc is mostly quiet while he wraps his fresh stitches and carefully checks his ribs for any potential breaks. When he does flinch it isn’t clear if it was over something Frank had just touched or at whatever he was avoiding looking at in the doorway leading back into the bedroom.

He steals some fresh clothes for himself from the bedroom. Then, wraps Marc in a thick robe he found in the cabinet he’d got the first aid kit from. It was safe to assume he needed sleep and food. Right now he isn’t showing any signs that he was going to sleep, so Frank helps him to a stool at the spacious kitchen counter. The fridge is empty, but there are a variety of canned goods in the pantry and ice packs in the freezer. He pulls out a few cans of soup and returns to the stove. Marc is frowning at him and looking around the apartment. 

“Frank?”

“That you, Spector?” He asks as he turns on the stove and starts digging for a pot. 

“Yeah,” he says uncertainly. “Don’t know for how long though.”

“How much do you remember?”

“It’s… foggy. Lots of gaps.” He frowns at the counter then shakes his head angrily. “It feels like all of our memories were thrown in a blender. I don’t know how much is missing. What day is it?”

“Wednesday.” He looks up and meets Marc’s unamused glare. “October the 23rd.” Marc gazes out the window thoughtfully. He is certain he won’t like the answer to his next question, but the words escape anyway. “What month did you think it was?” 

Marc continues to stare out the window. “I’ve been sleeping for too long.” He answers vaguely. With a deep breath he looks away from the polluted sky and watches Frank dump cold soup in the pan. “You came for me though.”

“Here,” he tosses a few of the ice packs on the counter. “I stitched you up, but you’ll want to ice your hands. Not sure I can help with the rest.” He gestures vaguely at his own head before turning back to the stove. 

“You can’t,” he says simply. “Steven’s place was a good choice though.”

“You said he made sure you took care of yourself.” Frank replies offhandedly as he stirs the soup. 

“Is there blood all over the bathroom?”

“Yeah. Your suit’s ruined by the way.”

“Steven will be pissed,” he says fondly. “I’m sure he’ll scrub everything down when he wakes up, but he’ll be yelling about the grout for a few months.”

They sit in silence until Frank portions out the meal and sets a bowl in front of him with a firm order to eat. He mumbles he isn’t hungry and pushes the bowl away, but Frank glares at him until he gives in. Marc eats slowly and keeps stopping to stare into far away corners. Frank nudges him each time and tells him to eat until the bowl is finally close to empty. While Marc forces down the last bits Frank goes back into the bathroom and opens the medicine cabinet. There are dozens of small orange bottles, but he quickly locates the one he needs and returns to the kitchen prepared for a fight. 

“Marc?” He’s abandoned his now empty bowl and is pacing the length of the apartment. He doesn’t notice Frank as he mutters to himself and scratches at one of his forearms. Before Frank can think about it he’s across the room. He’s seen Marc scratch at himself to the point of bleeding, so he doesn’t think as he grabs the offending wrist. It’s immediately apparent that this was a mistake. Frank lets him pull wildly away and raises his hands up in a placating gesture. Marc quickly backs away staring at Frank like he’s ready to tear his throat out. His feral eyes slowly clear in recognition until he can no longer meet him in the eye and his whole posture deflates. 

“You need to take your meds.” Frank says bluntly as he rattles the bottle in the tense air. Marc winces at the reminder of pills and shakes his head. In the wake of the panic he looks so small. Unsure in a way Frank rarely saw him. 

 

“Frank, please don’t make me,” he says it so quiet he almost doesn’t hear him. 

“No one’s going to make you, Marc. I don’t have a problem helping you, but I have my limits. You need to sleep. If you don’t you’re going to continue to get worse. You know that.” He steps toward him and resists reaching out and forcing him to look up at him. “I can’t do shit to help if you won’t try.”

“Will you stay?” He mumbled while pointedly not making eye contact.

“Only if you take your meds. Do that and I’ll stay as long as you need.” Marc stares at his throat and finally nods resignedly. Frank quickly retrieves a glass of water and glances at the label before shaking out a half a dozen of the small pills. Marc accepts them and glares at each one for a dozen breaths. With a sigh he takes the glass from Frank and swallows down the pills. 

Frank goes slow this time when he reaches for his shoulder. On nights when Marc is this out of it he doesn’t always respond well to being touched. He claims it’s over stimulating, so this time he gives him a window to draw away. When he leans into his hand Frank takes it as permission and gently wraps both arms around him in a loose hug that he could easily break out of. Marc sighs and lets his head rest on Frank’s chest. He holds onto Frank a little tighter while the meds quickly take effect. Slowing him down enough that he should be able to sleep through the night. 

He goes quietly when Frank leads him to the bedroom. There’s no fight in him as he guides him into clean sweats or when he tucks him under the silky sheets. He sighs when Frank kisses his forehead before moving back into the cold apartment to begin turning off lights and putting away some of the mess. The bowls are left to dry with the cleaned knife and set of knuckles. Without thinking about it too much he wipes the worst of the blood from the tile in the bathroom before tossing the ruined towel into the massive bathtub. When he comes back in Marc is standing at the window frowning at the glass. Frank thinks he must be looking for something familiar in the night, but as he watches Marc touch his own cheek he realizes he’s looking at his own reflection. He rubs at the dark shadows under his eyes for a moment before he notices Frank watching him. Their eyes lock together in the reflection for a beat. Marc’s face is full of too many emotions for Frank to decode in the seconds Marc allows him to see. It ends with Frank feeling like he missed something important. An answer, maybe, for where he can find the man he’d come to know. A guide to bring him back to how he was. Instead, Marc turns away from him and silently returns to the cold bed. The words they need to say don’t come. Frank slides in next to him and lets him wrap himself around his body. Physical support is all he can give. 

Marc doesn’t fall asleep easily. He holds tightly to Frank and buries his face into his chest. Before he can get comfortable he’ll twitch and snap back into consciousness only to restlessly shift into a new position against him. Frank kisses his temple or the top of his head and rocks him until he starts to relax again. Even after he falls asleep Frank continues to hold him. He keeps one hand pressed to his ribs and focuses on his heart beating against his palm until he falls asleep.

 

*

 

In the morning he wakes up alone. Marc is sitting on the bathroom floor staring vacantly at the wall. His arms are clutching his ruined cape to his chest. One hand grasps a crescent dart in a bloody fist. The fresh blood had run down his forearm and begun to drip on the floor. 

He’d never felt this far out of his depth as he pries his hand open to start assessing the newest injury. Marc was always unpredictable, but he’d never felt this far away. There was no sign of the dangerous mercenary as this stranger continued to grasp his cape to his chest with one hand. Frank had almost finished sewing him up when he felt him finally take notice of him. He watches the needle pull at his skin before whispering softly. “I need help.” In the quiet bathroom they both knew it wasn’t the kind of help Frank could give him.

“I’ll call Dr. Emmett.” Frank says as he wraps up his hand again. “I can drop you off after breakfast.”

“I’m tired, Frank.” Marc confesses softly. “I’m so fucking sick of this.”

“I know.” It was a lie. Frank had suffered a lot, but he’d always been able to rely on his own mind. He’d started life whole and had just been torn up along the way. Marc had been born full of wounds that would never completely heal. There were parts of Marc he’d never be able to relate to. Certain distances that he’d never manage to cross. 

Frank changes his bandages again and helps him into fresh clothes. They don’t talk while they eat. He had quickly realized in the elevator that Marc had slipped away again. When he was settling him into the car he’d anxiously asked where they were going. 

Frank is tense for the whole drive. He doesn’t ask when he’ll be out. They both know it might be a while this time. He wants to get to the hospital fast, but he’s also dreading the moment he has to hand Marc off. Now is the time to say something comforting, but before he can think of anything he’s pulling into the parking lot. Instead, he tells him to call when he needs a ride home. 

“Frank.” It’s only his name, but the clear resolution in his voice is impossible to miss. He turns to find weary eyes looking steadily back. “Don’t wait for me.”

“Spector-”

“No,” he cuts him off firmly. He grabs Frank by the back of the neck and pulls him into a rough kiss. Before Frank can pull him closer he slides back and lets their foreheads rest together for a moment. When he pulls back the distance is already returning to his eyes. “Marc isn’t your responsibility. I’m not your…” he closes his eyes and shakes his head trying to focus, but he knows they don’t have long. “I’m not the person that gets saved, Frank. There’s no one for you to kill and there isn’t some bullshit magical cure. Just our mind tearing itself apart on repeat until we die, again.”

“Don’t I get a say?” He knows how irritable he sounds, but he doesn’t care. Without thinking he reaches out and rests one of his hands on Marc’s scarred cheek. The scar down Marc’s eye leaves a perfect line in his eyebrow before continuing on his cheek. Frank knows there’s a pale scar on his eyelid that you can’t see unless you’re very close. He looks back at Frank and he can pick out that faint mark in the lingering shadows left by months of neglect. 

“Not really,” he manages the ghost of a smile, but it’s gone too soon. A rush of memories overwhelms the grief. Nights when Marc looked at him with such raw intensity that he could believe he was more than flesh and blood. He clutches those images now of a man burning from the inside with a singular intent. That person is still in there, but buried in waves of sand.

When he hands Marc off to the orderlies he can’t help but feel he’d failed him. That he’s just another person in a long line that had abandoned Marc. Dr. Emmett had grasped his shoulder and thanked him for bringing him in. The doctor told him quietly that Marc was a very complicated, unique case. That she’d been doing this for over ten years and still didn’t fully understand how Marc worked. He knows she’s trying to reassure him, but he’s too numb right now. “It might not feel like it right now, but you did the right thing. If you need someone to talk to you have my number. On the house.” She pats his shoulder and follows the orderlies. He didn’t say anything as he watched Marc until they turned a corner. Then, just like that, he was gone. 

 

Frank stands there for another minute before forcing himself to leave. Slamming the car door with extra force he quickly speeds out of the parking lot. The sense of shame remains even as the hospital disappears in his rear view. It bothered him how much he cared about Spector. He’d always known it was a bad idea to get too invested in someone like Marc. 

Marc had let him see some of his secrets, but it’s hard to get too close to someone who lives most of their life locked in their own head. Especially someone that had never shown interest in trying to build anything concrete. Frank had known that even as he reached for him. 

The more he saw the more he realized he'd never know Marc. So much of who he is had been isolated in his own head for too long. However, there was one thing he was now certain of. Even Marc Spector didn’t know the full depth of his illness. Today he’d realized that Marc’s greatest fear is of the day he loses himself to that void forever. The day he forgets who he is and checks into the hospital for the last time. Then, the slow decline in a padded cell. Where no one knows him. Least of all himself.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Feedback is always welcome!


End file.
